


the branch that bears the bright holly

by Zaxal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent Calendar, Advent Calendar Drabble, Angst, Banter, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Scars, Self-Doubt, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: A collection of short one-shots inspired by drawlight's 31 Days Of Ineffables prompts.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "The Peace Of Christmas Day."

“Excuse me.”

It was tentative, quiet, barely more than a squeak as if he’d be overheard, chided, mocked for trying.

Aziraphale took a steadying breath, cast his gaze about to determine that he was, indeed, alone, and turned his attention back to the ceiling.

“Excuse me,” he tried again, a bit louder, more certain, and he felt sure that he’d been heard this time. “I know it’s terribly inconvenient, me asking you like this, but could you not wilt just yet?”

The sprig of mistletoe, predictably, didn’t answer.

“You see, I put you up for a very—” A blush, another furtive glance around the bookshop, but he _was_ alone. “A very specific reason. But he— _it_ hasn’t happened yet.”

He huffed slightly at himself. As if the mistletoe could talk, as if it would tell Crowley—

But what if it could? Crowley talked to his plants all the time. For all that Aziraphale knew, they could talk back to him, communicating in some tongue that didn’t require a tongue at all. Crowley was exceptionally clever; if he wanted something to talk, it probably would.

Or, perhaps, it was that he couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t confess the reasons behind this silly game, where he’d hung the mistletoe above the sofa on which Crowley usually chose to lounge. More specifically, it hung right in the place where their hands should meet if Aziraphale were to pour him another drink, where they’d both be reaching out to one another, meeting in the harmonious middle ground.

Their fingers would brush over the stem of the glass, and Crowley would look up at him, would see the mistletoe hanging just above, would understand, would _smile_ , would say something teasing but ultimately kind unless— Unless he _didn’t want_ —

Oh, but he must. Aziraphale would confess to a certain amount of obliviousness, but he had seen how Crowley watched him, the way his eyes lingered on Aziraphale’s lips as he sampled one earthly delight after the other.

“So,” he said, smiling brightly. “I need you to buck up for a little while longer, if you would be so kind.”

The mistletoe, which hadn’t begun to go brown or wilt or, in any other way, wither, remained as lovely as it had been since the moment Aziraphale had first put it up.


	2. Snow

The snow drifts down in a steady fall. Each flake twists in the wind, catching hints of moonlight in a flash. All around him, lights dance in the dark. Crowley’s breath puffs in front of his face, and he pulls his coat tighter around him. He avoids looking up to the gaps between the clouds, to see the stars in the far distance while the world around him glitters as if sparks of starlight are falling and lighting up the night.

The world is beautiful. It’s something Crowley tries not to think about because it has no right to be. He’s seen everything Earth has to offer time and time again: every disaster followed by relief, every conflict that’s been followed by peace, every miracle. The wheels endlessly turn, and everything wonderful and soft melts and turns to fear, to hate.

Humans were created in Her image, and what have they done if not followed in Her footsteps? Imaginary divides, arbitrary rules, ways in which to say _‘You are not Mine, and if you are not Mine, you are My enemy.’_

(It’s not true. Crowley isn’t a pessimist though he tries. He tries, because accepting the good for what it is opens that soft, squishy place inside of him that is so easy to hurt. He covers it with scales, with sharp words, with his own fear — feeble attempts to protect himself that can do nothing against soft hands, warm smiles, and a self-assured promise that Crowley doesn’t dare to believe. _‘Mine, my beloved, my love.’_ He would melt like snow in summertime if it were true.)

A rush of wind kicks up the snow, and there is a soft sound of wings. “There you are.”

He hunches his shoulders forward. Huffs, “Here I am. Miss me?”

Then swears at himself because it’s too close to asking, too close to begging. _‘Say you need me, say you_ want _me when no one else has.’_

“And if I did?”

Crowley looks at him sharply. It’s been hours since they agreed to meet up for dinner; Aziraphale has no _reason_ to miss him.

They’ve seen so much of each other lately.

But looking at Aziraphale is a mistake. The moonlight holds onto him, painting him with the softest shades of night, illuminating his pale curls like a halo. His eyes are gentle, and they look at Crowley, into Crowley, avoiding the bleeding center of him but offering to take whatever he is willing to give.

Once upon a time, Crowley would have given him everything without a moment’s hesitation. But, now, there are too many things that ask for Aziraphale to give something in return, too many empty aches that yearn to be filled with Aziraphale’s love.

He covers that with scales, with sharp words, hiding his own fear.

“I’d say you’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“I’m as old as you are, my dear.”

“Still,” he argues pointlessly, hating that he does, hating that he wants to push Aziraphale away for the crime of caring. As if the rapid tattoo of his heart isn’t begging for more.

Aziraphale sighs, and Crowley shakes from head to toe, as afraid of him leaving as he is afraid of him staying and what it could mean.

There’s a flash of moonlit white, and Crowley blinks from the shadows as Aziraphale’s wing covers his head from the steady fall of snow.

He takes the slightest step closer with a grumble that is definitely for show, and wonders if the world isn’t beautiful precisely because it has no right to be.


	3. Nutcracker

Crowley is doing this on purpose.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the next _crack_ from one of the shop’s reading nooks. His eye twitches. It’s a voluntary show of agitation, a clear warning being given to the only other person currently in the building. He tries to smile because he doesn’t _want_ to be irritated with Crowley, but the very next _crack_ makes it fall off his face again.

“My dear boy,” he says as calmly as he can as he rounds a shelf to the nook Crowley’s taken up residence in. He lounges in the sun, all sharp angles from his limbs to his grin where a shell is lodged between his teeth. “I must ask that you not eat in my shop.”

Crowley tips his head back until the sunlight glints off his shades and the hem of his shirt slides up to expose skin and a line of fine hair. He pointedly _cracks_ the next nut with his teeth.

Then, he removes both halves and places them on the coffee table next to him and picks up the next. “Good thing,” he drawls, “I’m not eating.”

Crowley is doing this on purpose, trotting out technicalities and being purposefully annoying, purposefully _tempting_. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t wheedle straight under Aziraphale’s skin.

He could miracle the nuts away, but then Crowley could resummon them.

(He could throw Crowley out of the shop, but that defeats the purpose entirely. Aziraphale enjoys this more than he’d ever admit: Crowley at ease, begging for his attention with the confidence that Aziraphale will give it to him. This is a game they’ve played for centuries, though it’s taken on a myriad of forms.)

“I do believe that makes it worse.”

Crowley’s grin ticks wider, and he _cracks_ the next nut. “Yeah?” He tosses the halves on the table, effortlessly palming the next one.

“Crowley,” he says, letting his annoyance bleed into his voice. “You don’t want me to _make_ you stop.”

He does hesitate, but Aziraphale doesn’t expect him to stop. In fact, he expects Crowley to double down, and he almost smiles as Crowley pops the next nut between his teeth. He can’t help but rebel, especially when he knows the stakes are as low as they can be. He likes testing the waters, seeing how much Aziraphale will tolerate before bringing him into line. He’s goading because that’s what Crowley _does_.

This is the game, and if Aziraphale refused to play, Crowley would stop.

His jaw tightens, the shell creaks, and Aziraphale takes several quick, long strides, reaching down to grab Crowley’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Crowley swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and he doesn’t bite down.

Aziraphale hears the shop door lock and the sign flip over to ‘Closed’ behind him as Crowley flicks his hand.

Aziraphale smiles slowly, reaching with his other hand to pluck the nut from between Crowley’s premolars only to situate it between his incisors instead. Crowley swallows a whine. One pat of his leg, and Crowley curls it up, allowing Aziraphale to sit down before he pulls it gently over his lap. “Don’t drop it, and don’t bite through it,” he murmurs, and Crowley nods frantically. Behind his shades, his eyes are wide, staring at Aziraphale with awe as if this is entirely unexpected and not exactly what Crowley had been aiming for from the start.

This is their game, and, if played correctly, they can both win.


	4. Cranberry

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, tilting his head back, exposing the column of his throat even as he pretends to chide.

“Mm,” he hums into the warm crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He plants a row of sticky-sweet kisses, leaving red stains in the shape of his lips. He goes over them again, nourishing with his tongue and teeth until there’s a faint mark blooming beneath them. Aziraphale makes a soft noise in his throat, and Crowley noses along his jawline.

Aziraphale titters — _titters, Someone help him, it’s too much for Crowley’s fragile heart_ — at the attention. His hands hover, fluttering and uncertain over Crowley, still unused to being able to touch, always expecting a reprimand for showing affection.

Crowley leans into the nearest, smirking as Aziraphale’s fingers automatically stroke back through his hair.

He should say something reassuring or sweet, as loving as he dares to be even playing with these new rules when there are very few things that are actually off limits.

What his stupid mouth says is: “You taste like cranberries.”

Aziraphale looks at him with the same stern disappointment he would have if Crowley had suddenly declared that he was adopting a Hellhound. “I do _not_.”

He does, so Crowley squawks, “You _do—_ ” without thinking.

“No, dearest.” Aziraphale pulls his hand away and cups Crowley’s chin instead. His thumb gently trails over Crowley’s red-stained lips, tugging softly on the bottom one.

Crowley parts them and grabs Aziraphale’s thumb with his teeth, smiling sharply around it.

“In all likelihood, it’s from the drinks you were having tonight,” Aziraphale says as if his pupils haven’t almost swallowed his irises.

Crowley had forgotten about the flirty little cocktails he’d been enjoying, mostly because he’d had to sober up to drive home.

He reluctantly releases Aziraphale’s finger before planting a kiss to the meat of his palm instead. “Then what _do_ you taste like, angel?”

If Aziraphale has protests, he must have ideas of his own, and Crowley is, now, _dying_ to hear them.

“Well,” he huffs, “not _cranberries_ , I’m sure.”

Crowley’s tongue flickers out, his smile devious. “Want me to find out?”

_“No,”_ Aziraphale says, but his lips quirk into the slightest smirk.

“Why not?” He ducks to nose at Aziraphale’s neck again, smiling wider when Aziraphale’s head goes back again. “I’ve had a taste before.” Crowley’s tongue, lithe and snakelike, tickles his ear, and Aziraphale _giggles_. Crowley can feel his body moving with laughter, the way it ripples and rises with every wave of joy. Crowley wants to bury himself in this moment and a million others like it. 

Aziraphale murmurs, “So you did. You enjoyed it, I hope.” Self conscious doubt bleeds into his voice even as he tries to hide it.

“Of course. I came back for seconds.” A soft kiss. “Thirds.” Another. “Gonna keep working my way up the numbers.”

He feels Aziraphale relax, feels one of his hands skate through his hair again, neatly-manicured nails traveling lightly over his scalp. Crowley hums softly and lets Aziraphale spoil him for a moment more.


	5. Fire

Aziraphale is a furnace, fiery hot and possessing the gravity of the sun, pulling him closer until Crowley’s practically wrapped around him. He flings one leg over Aziraphale’s, an arm going around his soft thigh as he noses closer, pulling tightly.

Crowley mumbles, half-asleep and inexplicably cold.

If he’s conscious enough to mumble, he’s conscious enough to wake up rather than drifting off again, and for a moment, he’s ready to push himself to wakefulness. It’s embarrassing to be as tangled up as he is, as needy as he can be, and he feels the age-old impulse to put some distance between them. If he acts aloof, if he pulls back, he can’t be hurt by a lack of reciprocation.

And, no, the fact that Aziraphale is in bed with him doesn’t change how bloody _vulnerable_ he feels. It doesn’t eradicate the anxiety that Aziraphale is suffering through this, humoring him out of some misplaced sense of pity.

It took them 6000 years to reach this point, and it might take Crowley another 6000 to accept fully that it’s real, to stop doubting himself.

He no sooner starts stirring than Aziraphale’s hand — warm and soft, hasn’t seen a day’s labor that Aziraphale didn’t immediately make his body forget — rests on the nape of his neck. Crowley stills, cracking an eye open tentatively.

Aziraphale sits with his back to the headboard, a book balanced in one hand and his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He doesn’t look up from the age-worn pages even as his thumb trails over the top knob of Crowley’s spine in steady assurance.

“Cold,” he mumbles, hoping Aziraphale will forgive the intrusion on his personal space.

“Oh,” Aziraphale startles slightly, blinking from the book down to Crowley. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

Crowley nods and lets go of Aziraphale, backing off slightly. He doesn’t have his shades on, so it’s harder to hide the wounded look on his face, and he wishes he’d just teleported away than forcing Aziraphale into another corner where he’s expected to comfort him, to care for him beyond what should be reasonably expected.

Aziraphale sets his book to the side, and Crowley prepares to be left only for Aziraphale to slide under the covers, his legs tangling with Crowley’s.

“You don’t sleep,” he snips.

“I don’t,” Aziraphale agrees.

He reaches out to touch Crowley: a hand on his twisty hip, pulling him deeper into his embrace, and Crowley could fold himself into Aziraphale’s warmth for the rest of human history.

“You’ll be bored,” he tries again, less hostile but just as open to rejection.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, turning off the bedside lamp with a blink. “I don’t think I will be.”

“Just laying there for hours?”

“It’s not as though I’ll be alone. I’ll have you.”

Crowley mumbles incoherently, disapproving even as he curls his body into Aziraphale’s.

“You say such interesting things when you’re asleep.”

Crowley registers this information with a level of concern that borders on ‘alarm’, but he’s too warm, too comfy to demand to know what his traitorous mouth has been saying while he’s not fully behind the wheel.

Aziraphale’s lips brush against his hairline, a promise of protection and safety so strong that Crowley feels safely small in comparison, as if he could place all the fragile bits of himself in Aziraphale’s hands to keep himself from being broken apart further.

Aziraphale is a furnace, and Crowley yearns to be warm.


	6. Sleigh Bells

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Don’t,” Crowley snaps on a reflex, but Aziraphale is _looking_ at him, into him, knowingly peeling back the feeble attempts to shield himself with a cautious hand. Crowley buries his face in the scarf around his own neck, the heat from his breath and his blush fogging his shades for a moment. It’s a temporary impediment that mostly hampers his own ability to see, but he holds onto the vague hope that it will somehow prevent Aziraphale from looking at him like _that_.

The sleigh is sleek and black and hideously modern: made of sharp angles, lacking finer flourishes that Aziraphale would appreciate.

Crowley doesn’t have it in him to create many extraneous details, not even for Aziraphale’s sake. This is what his imagination came up with, and he’s shifting beside it, hoping that its purpose will be enough to make up for what it's missing.

“S’nothing.”

“You mustn’t say that!” Aziraphale startles, as if the conjured sleigh might have _feelings_ that Crowley’s inclined to hurt. He steps nearer, reaching out a hesitant hand. He leaves fingerprints on the the exterior, elaborate ridges and whorls that Crowley suddenly can’t imagine the sleigh not having. It’s what was missing.

Everything he makes, nowadays, seems to be better when it has something of Aziraphale’s.

“Where do you want to go, angel?” He asks, sauntering to the step and holding out a hand to help Aziraphale up.

“You didn’t plan out where to go?”

Crowley rolls his shoulders, but Aziraphale is _looking_ at him again, silently demanding honesty when, really, all he has to do is ask.

“Might’ve,” he confesses with a mumble.

Aziraphale brightens, and Crowley would swear that the world lights up around him.

“But… I couldn’t conjure anything to pull it.”

It’s a poor excuse, and the twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye tells Crowley that he’s been seen straight through. He hunches his shoulders forward but still holds out his hand until Aziraphale slides his own into Crowley’s. He tugs Crowley closer, causing the demon to stumble forward so that Aziraphale can place a brief peck of a kiss on his cheek before pulling back, rosy and smiling. There’s a tartan blanket sprawled across the red upholstery, and ahead of the sleigh are two celestial deer with shaggy winter coats and sprawling antlers that seem to cradle small stars.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says warmly, the words heavy with unspoken affection. “This is all so very lovely.”

Crowley blushes and pretends he didn’t, wiggling his free hand towards the seats. “Get _in_ , angel.”

Aziraphale does, and he tugs Crowley up beside him. He collapses onto the seat which is comfier than he remembers making it, and the blanket tucks warmly around them both.

Aziraphale’s hand refuses to release his. “You’ll have to tell them where to go,” he insists gently.

Crowley nods, dumbstruck for a moment before he manages to shoo the deer onward with a vague hiss in their direction.

Snow starts to fall, catching on Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks and in the white curls of his hair.

For the first time in Somebody-knows how many decades, Aziraphale doesn’t remind him to watch the road.

After all, it seems so unnecessary when the deer manage to pull the sleigh off the ground with the faint ring of echoing bells.


	7. Silent Night

There’s a resounding emptiness in his chest, achingly hollow in the space between his ribs where his imagined heart should be beating.

He can’t bear to let it, to feel the steady rhythm grounding him to fragile life, to hear it beating onward when others are silenced.

Necessary, he reminds himself. Necessary goods are not always kind, not always merciful; they are sometimes bloody, sometimes terrible. This is the price that must be paid for Heaven to win the eventual war. Salvation comes at a cost, and love is rarely — if ever — truly unconditional.

Even She has Her limits.

He is on his knees, a puppet with cut strings and just as bare.

_“Tell Him, and rejoice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said as if it had already been done. In a way — in the very specific way, in which Aziraphale would not refuse his orders — he supposed it already had been._

An important task, necessary. Undoubtedly necessary, even if the Child had looked up at him, tears in His eyes, confusion on His tongue.

_“One day,” he’d said without a hint of misgiving, “You will bring others to God. You will open another pathway to Heaven.”_

_A bright smile, so earnest, gap-toothed, and innocent. “How?”_

How foolish, not to realize what he’d been given, not to think until he’d explained, until Jesus’s smile had faded, until His heart broke open in front of Aziraphale, until He trembled with fear and a burden no child His age should be expected to carry.

The silence is damning. On the night of His birth, angels and stars had sung, and now, there is nothing. There has been nothing for so long that Aizraphale flinches when he hears the rustle of cloth.

He doesn’t bother to lift his head. The Enemy doesn’t need to know that he is hurt. The Enemy doesn’t need to see his damnable weakness etched across his face. Aziraphale should do what any angel — every angel — has been told to do when encountering the Enemy in the field.

Even with his head bowed, he can feel the Serpent’s hellfire eyes staring through him.

_“Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh?”_

He wishes Crawly would speak, would condemn him, would behave the way a demon ought. Aziraphale wishes he could hate her.

A rough hand slides over his, long fingers laying in place so that when Aziraphale splays his own, their hands fit together.

_“Rejoice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel had told him._

He takes a shaky breath that he doesn’t need, and the sound is deafeningly loud.

Rejoice in what? The tears of a child who can’t understand His destiny? The sense of accomplishment that comes with a good job well done? How could he possibly?

Would he have rejoiced at the birth, if he had known that this was what lay just down the road?

Had Gabriel known, when he’d told sweet Mary that she was to carry a holy child?

“Angel,” Crawly says, her voice breaking on the word, breaking the suffocating silence, breaking the spell.

_“I don’t want to die,” said in the softest, meekest voice, as if He understood that He was asking for the impossible._

“Jusst talk to me,” she says in a soft and alluring hiss, as if no one else would hear, as if they are ever truly alone. “Aziraphale, pleasse.”

He shakes his head. Saying it aloud is too much.

It’s the last time Aziraphale will allow himself this weakness.

_“Rejoice,” Gabriel said, shining like a star._

Aziraphale weeps.


	8. Choir

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says stiffly beside him, and Crowley tips his head towards him, unwilling to hide the stretch of his grin, the flash of his fangs.

“Life gave me lemons, angel. What am I s’posed to do — _ignore_ them?”

Aziraphale twitches with disapproval, but Crowley can’t help but notice that he’s not doing a _thing_ to deescalate the situation. Instead, he unscrews the cap to his thermos, letting the steam waft up to his face before he tips it up to take a drink with a slight air of judgement.

It’s practically all the permission Crowley needs.

His arms are spread along the back of the park bench, and he lifts one hand to twirl a finger in the air.

The two separate groups of carolers start singing the same song in two clashing keys at almost the exact same moment.

Aziraphale winces into his thermos, turning a glare to Crowley who sprawls comfortably on the bench as the bickering starts. Humans are _fantastic_ at bickering over everything, over nothing. It’s great! Most of the time, they don’t even need him to create an inconvenient coincidence — he gives it to them free of charge. Boom, instant excuse to argue for hours.

It’s the same way humans might crinkle a cat toy before throwing it down for their pet to chase around, and it usually ends just as harmlessly. They’ll tire themselves out before anything escalates, and, on the off chance that things start to get nasty, Aziraphale’s won’t let anybody get stabbed this close to the holidays.

As if he heard Crowley’s thoughts, Aziraphale elbows him sharply in the ribs with an almost casual movement. Crowley leans forward, wincing with a slight hiss, but Aziraphale crosses his ankles.

“My love,” he says in a dangerously calm tone of voice that Crowley thinks he would hear if they were on the most crowded, noisiest street in the world with fireworks booming overhead. “Is this really necessary?”

“Nope,” Crowley says carefully, smile stretching wider at Aziraphale’s slight, put-upon frown. “Not in the _least_.”

“Don’t you think you ought to stop it?”

There’s a crescendo in the argument nearby. People are not quite shouting, but they are talking louder, in shorter sentences, and using vaguely polite phrases that warn that passive aggression might not be the last possible stage of agitation.

Crowley watches Aziraphale as he sips at the contents of his thermos, as calm and collected as if they were the only ones here. Expectant.

Crowley _likes_ irritating Aziraphale. Just a little. Just enough to ruffle his feathers so Crowley can smooth them back down. It’s all very calculated, and at this exact moment, Crowley is creating projections for how the next week is going to go — things like if Aziraphale is actually annoyed with him, how long it will take him to understand that this is a harmless bit of conflict, whether Aziraphale likes the holiday season enough to forgive and forget in order to have Crowley close. There are more complicated factors, such as the bowtie he chose for today, or the tea Crowley can smell from the thermos, little things that would mean nothing to anyone but him who could map a galaxy of Aziraphale’s minutiae and still manage to find something new.

Should he stop the humans from fussing? Yes, undoubtedly. Aziraphale’s eyebrow quirks, and his expression is the same deadly calm that hides the emotions he doesn’t want to share.

But is Crowley going to?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a single note of warning, and Crowley snaps his fingers before he can register that he really, really _should_.

Within moments, the groups have reconciled and have found a song to share.

Aziraphale looks insufferably smug.


	9. Chestnuts

The cottage is quiet in the late evenings, when the last of the traffic dies down and the neighbors retreat indoors. Night brings with it a heavy but comfortable peace, a warm quilt of contentment that feels nearly — but not quite — stifling.

He knows Crowley feels it too. He’s the first to act out, to create forgivable pockets of chaos in the peaceful lives that retirement has given them both.

Neither of them know how to be peaceful, but it’s something they’re working on.

 _They_ , together — Aziraphale wiggles slightly in his spot on the sofa with a pleased hum, thumbing the next page of the book in his lap. Reading is a reflex, and he can keep his usual pace even when his head’s off in the clouds, wondering how on Earth he’s meant to survive the torrent of previously-dammed emotions as they wash over him.

Loving Crowley is an indulgence he could never again deny himself. It permeates every interaction, every word, every breath until going over a restaurant’s menu on Crowley’s phone sounds like a litany of declaration. _“Yes, they have crème brûlée, angel; I love you. I have loved you since the day I met you, and I will love you until the end of infuriating, ineffable eternity. You’re stuck with me, now, and I’m stuck with you, and when those birds have wheedled the mountain at the edge of the universe down to nothing, we will still belong to each other. Let me tell you what wines they have.”_

Aziraphale’s not quite sure how he managed to go a single year (much less millenia) where every word he said didn’t have a footnote attached: _“I love you. I choose you. I will continue to choose you until time has no meaning, and then I shall choose you again and again until time is remade.”_

There’s a lot going unsaid these days, more than ever before, but the bulk of the message is loud and clear.

The soft weight of Crowley’s head lands on his shoulder. It’s tentative, questioning, the way Crowley politely phrases all physical affection.

Aziraphale startles slightly but does his best not to outwardly react. Crowley will take it as a rejection, and it’ll take precious moments to convince him to try again now that Aziraphale’s paying attention.

He gives them a moment to settle into this moment, into this touch, then tucks a bookmark into the pages and sets the book to the side.

“Yes, my dear?”

“S’rry,” he mumbles on a reflex, and Aziraphale noses gently at his dark hair, pressing a soft kiss to his scalp.

“Whatever for?”

“You were reading.”

“And now I’m not.”

Crowley bites back a soft noise which could be of any number of different aborted intentions, and he nudges forward like an impatient cat until Aziraphale relents.

He leans back on the sofa and reaches an arm around Crowley’s waist. “Would you lay down for me?”

Crowley can rarely resist being asked to do anything _for_ Aziraphale (which is the precise reason he phrases it that way). He pulls away and flings his long legs over the far arm of the sofa, and, when Aziraphale pats his leg, he pillows his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. Stiff, nervous, always afraid to take too much for himself even when he’s taking nothing not given freely.

“May I?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley gives a nod. He chews his bottom lip as Aziraphale gently traces the shape of his tattoo, following the line of the body up to Crowley’s chestnut hair. As Aziraphale soothes through the hair at his temple, Crowley eases into the affection. He gives a soft sigh, tilting his head as Aziraphale cards his fingers through the silky strands, wishing it was longer, that he could weave sprigs of yarrow and clover into it for hours while Crowley melts under his hands.

“You are beautiful.” He doesn’t give Crowley the chance to dispute it (though he does, anyway, making a noise in his throat as if to disagree before Aziraphale gently tugs his hair in a way that grounds him to this moment, their intimacy, the mutual trust they share together) by asking him if he’s aware. Aziraphale will make sure that he knows.

Instead, Crowley waits until hours have passed, until it’s too late — or, perhaps, too early — to go anywhere, to mutter, as if disapproving, chiding: “You spoil me.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says warmly, watching as Crowley blushes in his lap, turning his head to hide his face against Aziraphale’s thigh. “And I shall every day, so long as you are mine to spoil.”

The noise Crowley makes is utterly indecent.

Aziraphale wants to hear it again, but he has time.

Lord knows they have nothing but time.


	10. Gold & Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this plot came out of nowhere and demanded a longer fic than i currently have the time to write, so this chapter and the next are a teaser for something in the future!

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes with a slight shudder, utterly exposed for the taking. Crowley was breathless as he undressed him, peeling layer after layer of stuffy clothing away until there were flashes of moonlit skin, a dusting of silver hair, a craving for more that consumed him.

He took as much pleasure in looking at Aziraphale as touching him, and he feels wholly selfish that his clothes are still on, that he’s denying Aziraphale the joy he feels right now.

Should be feeling, really. Ought to be.

This is everything he’s ever dreamed of, every indulgence he’s never taken, every prayer he’s dared to whisper when he thought that She might listen to him. Never to Rise, never for forgiveness, never to change his lot in life except to allow this one miracle he could never make for himself.

Yet, with Aziraphale sprawled out beneath him, delectable and _his_ , Crowley stops. He stops, and he stares at a spiderweb of gold embedded into the meat of Aziraphale’s right thigh. A scar forms the center, and the gold is twisted and lumpy, as knotted as the flesh it’s replacing. There are shards that bend and fold in the curves of Aziraphale’s flesh. The farther from the scar they are, the sparser and thinner they become, but every now and then, one catches in the light, glinting, a vein of divinity that he longs to cherish with his mouth, his tongue.

He would worship Aziraphale from head to foot if the angel would let him.

But Crowley _can’t_.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, reaching out to him, but before his hand can touch Crowley’s face, he flinches backward, practically flinging himself away from Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale, immune to the general idea of modesty, frowns at him while utterly and completely nude. There’s concern written on the lines of his face, and a glint of gold on his collarbone. “What is it?”

How can he say that the world stopped spinning mere moments ago? How can he say that they survived the Apocalypse only to run into it again months down the line?

Aziraphale allowed him to see this piece of his divinity, and it’s shattering him from the inside out. He’s aware, now, that it’s a gift he never deserved.

“Angel—”

“Yes?” he says, perfectly patient, blissfully unaware.

“S’that a scar—?” It is. Crowley knows it is. Crowley _knows_. He needs Aziraphale to know, too.

Aziraphale’s brow creases, and then he looks down, startling at the sight of it. “Oh, yes! I was injured in the First War.” He smiles brightly. “Did I not tell you?”

“No, I—” He swallows. “We haven’t talked about it. Much. At all, really.”

“We don’t have to now.” Aziraphale reaches out for him again but stops short when Crowley tenses.

“I think we should,” he says miserably and watches the crestfallen look cross Aziraphale’s face.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Crowley can’t give this to him now, after everything, and it’s not fair that Aziraphale thinks it’s his _fault_ which is something that becomes evident immediately. “I… didn’t realize it would bother you, my dear boy.”

“It doesn’t!” he says too quickly, too loudly, shattering the silent night with his voice. He cringes. “It’s— It’sss—” And he bites his tongue, the hiss scraping over the backs of his teeth which have started to sharpen. “I—”

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright in this light and absolutely merciless. They demand answers he doesn’t want to give, intelligent and prying, already probably steps ahead of him assuming he remembers—

Because Crowley _does_.

Crowley remembers hurting. He remembers being lost in that pain, listening to Satan as he stood before the first Legions of Hell, telling them to turn the pain and injustice on those who caused it. Crowley remembers the thick of battle, the smell of divine and infernal blood on his tongue, and he remembers striking forward, fangs bared, injecting his first dose of venom into a Principality who looked so like Her beloved humans, whose sceptre turned into a flaming sword and separated his head from his body in his first ever discorporation.

Crowley doesn’t remember it being Aziraphale, but now it’s all he can imagine. Wide-eyed, terrified, hurting — and, oh, he had been so _proud_ at the time for how he’d gone out, how he’d hurt one of Her children.

“I did it,” he confesses in a rush of breath, staring up the bed at Aziraphale. “That— I, was it?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits. “Are there any other serpents like you?”

“None,” Crowley confesses.

He huffs something like a laugh. “Then it must have been. I thought it might be, when I saw you in the Garden, but—” He lifts his hand to his mouth in sudden, wide-eyed horror. “I _beheaded_ you. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Crowley asks, voice pitching higher, almost manic. “I _bit you_. I— bloody full of venom, and then I, I slithered up to you the next day like we were old pals!”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, matter-of-factly and a little annoyed by the sound of it, “it wasn’t the _next day_.”

Crowley’s eyes are wide and wild, and he cannot begin to parse what he’s feeling.

He does the only thing he can think of. He vanishes.


	11. Pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continued from last chapter!

A click of his fingers, and his clothes return to his body, a snug comfort in the face of… whatever this had become.

Aziraphale folds his hands in his lap, waiting, hoping that Crowley will realize and return, but after long moments, he sighs and pushes himself to his feet, leaving the bed empty and cold where the earlier promises of the evening lie forgotten.

Aziraphale had long ago come to terms with the fact that he and Crowley had probably met on the battlefield of the First War, that they had hurt one another. It was before either of them had known better. They hadn’t known each other. They certainly hadn’t known that their respective ‘sides’ were a pointless division, a simple Us Versus Them for two factions that were ultimately not that different.

They had been different people (or different celestial beings) then, and Aziraphale had assumed somewhere around their first meeting in Rome that they simply weren’t going to talk about it. Forgiven, forgotten, cast aside in favor of who they were now, who they could be to one another.

Months ago, before the world tried to end, Aziraphale might have sat in the bookshop and fussed. He would have kept his hands busy and his head down, hoping for Crowley to come to his senses sometime before the next century and return to him willingly.

But Aziraphale’s patience has worn thin. He did not choose Crowley only to allow a shared mistake of their past to tear them apart after all this time.

He tugs his coat on, smooths it out, and disappears in a rush of air, following the trail Crowley left behind.

In a blink, he goes from standing in the flat above the bookshop to a grove of pine trees in the middle of a dark and bitter cold.

His breath plumes in front of his face, and Aziraphale tries — _tries_ , but doesn’t quite _succeed_ — not to be annoyed with Crowley for choosing to hide somewhere where he’ll be miserable. It’s too cold, too far from any of the modern comforts Crowley enjoys, and the clouds overhead ensure that Crowley can’t see his beloved stars.

Crowley is punishing himself.

Aziraphale walks through the copse of trees in measured steps, doing his best to keep his face impassive and his ears open to the sound of steps or slithering on the snow. He wants to call out, to pull Crowley to him through the force of love, but it wasn’t enough to keep him in Aziraphale’s bedroom. If Crowley thinks he’s here for Crowley’s sake, he’ll continue to hide, hoping that Aziraphale will get fed up with him so he can sulk in peace.

If Crowley thinks Aziraphale is here for himself — for revenge, as an outlet for his anger — he might let himself be found in the hopes that Aziraphale will hurt him in order to forgive him.

Aziraphale _won’t_ ; he would _never_ , but Crowley’s worked up enough that he’ll believe the worst about them both. Aziraphale’s merely willing to use it to his advantage.

He spots the hole, just under the edge of a pine tree’s branches, so freshly dug that it hasn’t yet been covered by snow. It’s easily wide enough for Crowley to squeeze in, were he in serpent form and desperate to hide.

Aziraphale stops before it, hands folded in front of him. “Crowley.”

Silence.

“I have to wonder, my dear, if you’ve thought this through.” He wants to be kind and patient and soft. He wants Crowley to feel safe, but it’s hard.

It’s hard, because Crowley took that feeling of safety that Aziraphale had wrapped around himself away the moment he’d vanished from the room.

“Did you think I wouldn’t follow you? That I wouldn’t do everything in my power to find you?” He takes a shaky breath. “If you want me to leave, you’ll have to tell me so. Until then, I’m afraid I’ll stay right here.”

The hours pass, and Aziraphale’s lonely vigil continues. Leaving never occurs to him — he’s made a vow, and he refuses to let Crowley think he can out-stubborn him. By the time the sun lightens the eastern horizon, there’s a dark head nudging at the hole and a pair of yellow eyes staring up from the ground.

Crowley, in a petty attempt to prove something, flashes his fangs with a menacing hiss.

Aziraphale merely smiles. “There you are.”

It’s not the end, but perhaps it’s enough for yet another beginning.


	12. Caroling

The soft strains of a distant ‘Silent Night’ managed to wind through a lull of comfortable conversation, and Crowley watched with a certain indulgent greed as Aziraphale tilted his head slightly to listen. The angel looked positively indecent, several buttons undone as he slouched slightly in his favorite chair, face flushed red from a combination of wine and brazen flirting, eyes drifting slightly closed as if he could get lost in the all-too familiar song.

Aziraphale always looked soft, but by the glow of his lamps, surrounded by his books and assorted creature comforts without a worry in the world, he looked effortlessly radiant.

“You like that,” Crowley observed from his own comfortably drunk, languid sprawl. “That song.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale agreed with a slight wiggle down into his chair. “It isn’t the _song_.”

“No?” Crowley smiled before reaching up to nudge his shades up onto the top of his head, exposing his eyes. Aziraphale rolled forward almost imperceptibly, his own eyes hungrily holding onto Crowley’s. “So if, if they were running up and down the street singing—” Crowley trailed off, trying to think of a song that Aziraphale would both recognize and disapprove of. He cataloged for long moments before his brain decided he’d already filled in that blank, and he continued, blissfully unaware that he hadn’t. “You’d _like_ that?”

Aziraphale’s face pinched before the carolers’ singing distracted him again. A wistful look crossed his face, and he gave a warm sigh. “It just… reminds me, you know.”

“Reminds you of what?” Crowley murmured.

“Folk songs. Shanties. One human would sing, and the rest— or many of them, you understand, without prompting or rehearsal… They’d start singing, too.”

“Hymns.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Like hymns,” he agreed. “Only… Only, they weren’t songs of worship.”

Crowley could remember the choirs of Heaven, singing glorious praise in an endless and perfect harmony. There was no need for words when the purpose was understood. They’d called Her the Lord of Song and rightfully so.

“They were more like stories,” Crowley agreed, swallowing around the tightness in his throat.

“Stories,” Aziraphale hummed, pleased, melting a bit more into his seat, but there was a look, now, something distant, as if Aziraphale was miles away.

Crowley unfolded and poured himself out of the seat, hardly realizing that he’d made a decision until he was halfway across the room. “Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head up, lips parted in perfect temptation.

“I’m not going to sing,” he said warningly and knew that he would in a heartbeat if Aziraphale asked.

“Well, then.” He smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. “What will you do?”

“For you, angel?” Crowley slung a leg across the far arm and slithered effortlessly into Aziraphale’s lap. “Anything else.”

A gentle hand cupped Crowley’s jaw, and those tempting lips met his with all the warmth and tenderness any celestial being had ever mustered.


	13. Wrapping Paper

Crowley lounges on the sofa in an artful sprawl, all long limbs and sharp angles. His back bows forward, an arc from his hips to where his head rests, propped on an arm while his hand dangles over the edge of nothing. It’s an invitation for Aziraphale alone, a lovely thing on the finest stationary with superfluous flourishing, a tempting offer presented in a meticulous, attractive manner. _Come_ , Crowley has all but said, _and fit our shattered pieces together._

And Aziraphale is ignoring him.

He gives a slight huff, allowing his body to sag and sulk before he twists lithely onto his side, watching in silence as Aziraphale works.

No human alive would know the difference between a present that has been wrapped by a miracle or one that’s been wrapped by an angel’s hands. It’s a simple matter of fact. Not a one will appreciate the effort that goes into each individual gift, especially not those who know Aziraphale could have achieved the exact same look with a click of his fingers.

Aziraphale knows this — he’d known it before Crowley had reminded him, before he’d lost his patience, before he’d warned that Crowley could either keep quiet or leave — yet he continues. His hands move with a practiced precision, gentle but confident, creating neat creases that will be ripped apart, ribbons that will be torn and discarded.

Aziraphale is good at this. He creates meaning from the lawless void, embracing chaos to whip it into a shape he finds more pleasing. He may not enjoy customers in the shop, but he enjoys tidying up after them, returning everything to its rightful place.

He takes it in hand.

Crowley’s throat closes around the noise it wants to make, around the desperate desire for those deft hands, those keen eyes, that relentless attention.

He shuffles down in the cushions, trying not to think of those hands moving over the buttons of his jacket, the gray waistcoat beneath with an unerring confidence. _So many layers_. As if the pot has anything to say to the kettle.

Aziraphale likes talking back. He likes it for the same reason he likes when others make a scheduled, expected mess, and he can putter along behind them and straighten everything up to his standards. There’s a delicate sort of cruelty Crowley wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy because they simply don’t _deserve_ it. They don’t deserve to be shown how to please him, to be given the chance, loved regardless of whether it’s taken or not.

No one deserves him, but he’s chosen to give himself to Crowley regardless.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker from the present he’s currently wrapping, focus momentarily wavering between his task and the demon.

It’s addicting, to push him even when he doesn’t mean to. He pulls them both to the edge of _something_ , then lets go, lets Aziraphale decide whether they plummet together or whether he wants to pull them both to safety.

He chews his bottom lip and wiggles his hips, pressing against the sofa.

Crowley was told to keep quiet, so he does. His lips part, but he makes no sound as he rolls his hips down, greedily watching the way Aziraphale takes him in with the perfect mix of indulgence and annoyance, all of it underscored by love.

“Behave until I’m done.”

Crowley thinks — _thinks_ , but is not quite _sure_ — that he can manage that.


	14. Eggnog

Aziraphale is ageless. He came into existence before time had, born into the endless expanse of creation. There’s no telling how old he really is.

Ordinarily, it’s simply a fun fact, something he shares with what few humans know him for what he really is. A cheery Did-You-Know about birthdays and star signs that he pulls out about as often as he does his magic act.

But sometimes — not often, but _sometimes_ — he feels so terribly old.

His mobile pings four times in quick succession, and Aziraphale eyes it with disdain.

There are few things more annoying than feeling as though he must be constantly available. He’s never been one to listen to prayers, to behave as a guardian angel for specific people. He has played many parts over the course of Earth’s history: friend, lover, patron, muse, and, of course, guardian. If not for the whole ‘averting the Apocalypse’ bit, Aziraphale would say that he’s been a perfect model of a Principality.

It’s not prayers he’s answering these days, but it doesn’t change the nature of the beast. He must be willing to put his tea aside, close his book, and pick up the mobile phone Crowley got him whenever he is summoned. And he has been summoned. The humans who remember the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t have their fair share of bogeymen and traumatic memories that they can’t address with anyone else. Brian remembers the smooth skin where a mouth should be and wakes screaming in the middle of the night. Newton hears the blaring of alarms and the low level of anxiety that churns constantly in his gut spikes until he can’t breathe. Tracy feels strangely empty, despondent, as if the stranger who shared her skin left a hole in his wake.

They have, all of them, carried the world on their shoulders, and they bear scars that no other human will understand.

He doesn’t, either, but he and Crowley are the best that they have. Aziraphale will give them anything he can within reason, both out of a sense of duty and as his most humble and eager thanks.

So he picks up the mobile, unlocks it with a miracle because the security code is more to keep others out than to limit himself, and he stares at the first text message that pops up on his screen.

_[Adam] It was Crowley’s idea._

Aziraphale takes a fortifying breath because he can afford it. No one’s in dire need of him. He can afford to be annoyed, to be tense, to be upset for the sake of his cozy afternoon.

The second message is from Anathema and Newton’s shared phone that Newt isn’t allowed to touch but is allowed to dictate to. It’s painfully obvious that it’s Newt struggling with text-to-speech which may or may not be one of Crowley’s inventions — he refuses to say.

_[Anathema / Newton] Mr. Fell can Mr. Crowley do magic while he’s in snake form asking for no reason no need to worry about it send send send brian hit send_

_[Pepper] he’s gotten himself stuck_

Aziraphale can only imagine, but he’s certain that whatever Crowley’s done, he can get himself out of.

Then, he teleports so suddenly from the cottage over to the Jasmine Cottage that his mobile clatters to the floor and its screen shatters. The screen, before it goes dark, shows the final message he’d read:

_[Wensleydale] Mr. Aziraphale could you please help? I think he’s hurt himself._

The kitchen is a _mess_ , and that’s putting it politely.

Crowley’s serpent form is large and long. He’s draped over counters and stools, writhing furiously. He thrashes, and a stool clatters to the ground. He stops moving for a moment until Adam calls out, “All clear!”

Crowley lifts his head again, preparing to start the fight again, and Aziraphale presses his lips together _tightly_.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to _laugh_. He’s going to cause a fight by _laughing_ as Crowley struggles with the hefty cup that he’s gotten stuck on his head.

The Them each get their hands on the mug or on each other, but when Crowley pulls his head away, he drags the kids across the wooden floors.

“I should call Aziraphale,” Newton murmurs from where he’s gingerly holding onto the girth of Crowley’s body to help tug him free.

“No!” The kids shout almost all at once, eager to prevent another electronic catastrophe, and Wensley lets go to reach for his own phone.

“I’ll do it—”

“There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale says calmly, and, slowly, six heads turn towards him. Rather, five heads and one cup. He should release Crowley now, but Aziraphale decides to leave him in his self-made prison a little while longer.

After all, there’s no reason Crowley couldn’t get free himself.

“Who wants to explain what happened?”

“I—” Newton swallows nervously. “I’m sorry. We made eggnog! And Mr. Crowley—”

Crowley _hisses_ , thrashes, a warning with no teeth.

Oblivious, Newt continues. “He said he could fit his whole head in the mug.”

“Adam _dared_ him to do it!” Brian says, which sparks an outcry and an argument among the children.

“Where,” Aziraphale says with a sunny smile, “is Anathema?”

Newt blinks. “She just stepped out.” He manages to look dejected, and it occurs to Aziraphale that Newt likely worries about being left in charge of the children. He must feel terribly judged — it’s one of the worse parts of his anxiety.

“Dear boy,” he says gently. “Crowley is over six-thousand years old. He’s perfectly responsible for himself, and he can get out of that anytime he likes.”

Crowley cocks his head as if he hadn’t realized that yet on his own.

“I’m merely wondering if she wants you all to clean this up by hand or if she would prefer me to miracle it clean.”

“Oh my _God—_ ” Anathema’s voice sounds from behind him.

Crowley jumps and abruptly appears in human form, sitting and sulking on the counter with the cup in his hand. “Y’don’t have to bring Her into this!”

“What did you _do_?” she demands, staring down a demon without hesitation, without fear, gesturing with her bread knife more for emphasis rather than as a specific threat.

Aziraphale stops mourning the afternoon he’d been planning.

This is going to be _much_ more fun.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://zaxal.tumblr.com/)!


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